


Ravage Me, O Northern Wolf

by ewinofthelake



Series: The Deadly Duo in Time [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst and Feels, Badass Arya, Bathing/Washing, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Hand Jobs, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Religious Guilt, Sexual Tension, Vikings, Virgin!Jaqen, Voyeurism, special appearance by Alexander Ludwig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 00:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18158933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewinofthelake/pseuds/ewinofthelake
Summary: AD 793.The Northmen raid the monastery of Lindisfarne in Northumbria.Shieldmaiden Arya returns home with more than she bargained for.





	Ravage Me, O Northern Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> GoT/ASoIaF characters, Vikings setting (but you don't need to know the series to understand the story.)  
> My Bjorn is not the historical Ironside, but in my mind he happens to be played by Alexander Ludwig, just because.  
> Oh, and Arya is unusually tall, because... Vikings!
> 
> English is not my first language and I have no beta.  
> Arya and Jaqen belong to George R. R. Martin.  
> Vikings references belong to Michael Hirst.  
> 'Foreboding omens' lines adapted from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.  
> Photo credit to the owners.

It was a sunny day when the Northmen came to Lindisfarne.

_Foreboding omens were seen in that year over the land of the Northumbrians – excessive whirlwinds, lightning, fiery dragons flying in the sky. These signs were followed by great famine, and then the ravaging of wretched heathen men destroyed the temple of God._

*

Fire, blood. It was all that Jaqen could see.

He watched helpless and scared as the Northmen attacked his home, killed his brothers, ransacked everywhere. They came from the sea with their furs and their shields and their long boats carved with dragons.

He watched dazed and stunned as one of their women warriors strode up brandishing her sword, fighting like a wolf. She was young and fierce, her short locks dark and unruly, her long limbs shaped by her strength.

He watched doleful and lost as terror ran amok before him, until his eyes closed and he thought God had finally come and taken him.

Destruction, demise. It was all that remained of his life.

*

Jaqen's new life was not much different than his life as a monk. He just had to serve in a completely different way.

During the bloody assault at the monastery, he was spared and captured because the fierce woman with the dark locks said he could be useful. And after a long voyage by sea, he found himself in the great hall of her village in front of what the Northmen called their Earl.

"Bjorn, let me keep the priest as a slave," she demanded. "He speaks our language, and we need to know more about these people for our next raids to the West."

He had learned the language of the Northmen during his travels, and now he thanked God for that.

An icy glare towards the woman apparently meant Bjorn's consent. She pulled Jaqen by the rope tied around his wrists, and motioned for him to follow her. The Earl's voice thundered in the hall as the two headed for the exit.

"You're too lonely in that cabin of yours, sister." Bjorn chuckled as she looked at him and narrowed her eyes. "And you can feed him to the bears if one day they finally decide to attack you."

_So I will live with their ruler's sister._

*

Houses in those northern lands were even more austere than what Jaqen was used to, and the part of him that had sworn a vow of poverty was happy for that.

 

 

Arya lived in a secluded cabin in the woods, quite far from the village but very close to the seashore.

Jaqen had learned her name after days of hateful stares and hungry looks. He was not wrong when he compared her to a wolf; sometimes he thought she looked at him as if she wanted to eat him alive.

Gradually, they found a way to communicate in a civil manner. He taught her the basics of his language and religion – the dialects spoken in his lands, the prayers he recited in Latin. And he tried to show her the beauty of his faith – sadly with disheartening results ( _How can you worship a dead man?_ )

The day when they were finally able to have an entire conversation in his language, Arya even mocked him. For his white streak of hair.

His hair was a dark shade of red, except for an unexplainable single streak, which was usually not visible because Jaqen shaved the top of his head as monks used to do. Being a slave, he was not allowed access to blades, and his hair began to grow back, showing the white streak in all its radiant glory ( _That's why you shaved it; you were just vain!_ )

*

Jaqen worked hard in his new life, even harder than before, and he was grateful for that, because idleness was the enemy of the soul.

Arya went hunting everyday, and sometimes just disappeared – to do all those things that a woman warrior had to do, he assumed.

She left him alone at the cabin most of the time, aware that even the mildest threats were scarcely necessary, _because you wouldn't last a day out there, so you'd better stay close._

He offered no rebuttal to that. Those northern lands were so different from his isle, so harsh, so cold.

Within a short while, Arya decided he needed training, _because if those bears really come, you must defend my cabin._

But he was a lost cause. He was not even capable of holding a stick. Or more likely he didn't _want_  to hold a stick; didn't want to hurt anyone or anything.

*

Everyday Jaqen worked and trained, and every night he was so tired.

He soon learned that the Northmen didn't know the concept of modesty. His 'bed chamber' consisted of a nook in the darkest side of the open-plan cabin, divided from the remaining part of the room by a thin curtain.

He didn't mind, though – Arya never bothered him when he was hidden in his corner; and every night, as soon as his back touched the floor, he was dead to the world.

Until the night he was jolted awake by her cries.

Jaqen didn't know what to do. _What if there is an intruder trying to hurt her?_  The thought terrified him. _How can I protect her if I can't even protect myself?_

He decided to stay hidden in the dark and assess the situation.

Her side of the room was bathed in a faint orange light, coming from the cabin's single oil lamp. He tried to locate the attacker, but the only presence he could detect was Arya.

And he had never seen her in such a state before.

She was stretched out on her furred bedding, completely naked, one hand between her thighs, panting desperately.

The sleep haze clogging his brain had dissipated, and he was now able to discern what her soft voice was moaning.

She was calling his name.

"Jaqen..." Her hand was moving frantically against her flesh. "Please..." Her whole body was quivering in wild abandon. "Make me come."

He swallowed a groan.

He wasn't sure what she meant, but he couldn't be wrong about the forbidden sensation growing inside him. Instantly, he covered his ears in shame and curled up on the floor, forcing himself to a sleep that never came.

Every night after that, he couldn't sleep. During the day he was exhausted, but he worked harder and harder to wear himself out even more. He couldn't be witness to such deeds anymore.

Every night, though, he would hear Arya's soft voice again. He sat immobile in the shadows, hugged his legs to his chest, and turned his head to look at the wall.

But sometimes he was weak. Sometimes he watched. He watched that sinful creature crying out his name; he watched the pain and the pleasure on her face – pain and pleasure caused by thoughts of him.

And one night he couldn't take it anymore. One night he touched himself. He touched himself until his hand was wet and sticky; he touched himself until guilt and regret ate him up from the inside out.

*

Jaqen learned to live with guilt and regret, because more nights like that followed – more nights filled with sin.

He could hardly look at her anymore. Every time she left, he would run to the sea and scrub his skin until it was red and raw. And still every night he would sin.

Until the night he was not careful enough.

It was a night like many others. Arya was lying on her furs, only the thin curtain hiding her figure from his eyes, her legs spreading impossibly wider as her hand worked on her flesh and lascivious murmurs escaped her lips.

But that night, he couldn't keep silent when his insides burst and he saw stars behind his eyelids and his mouth opened of its own accord. "Arya!"

As he cried out her name, she raised her head in astonishment and disbelief.

But her hand didn't stop.

"Jaqen," she breathed, "I knew you were touching yourself."

He gripped the curtain, hiding behind it in shame.

"I knew you were watching me." She moaned his name again, her hand never stopping. "Come out, I need to see you."

Slowly, he stepped out of the dark corner. Their eyes met.

"Jaqen..." Her voice sweet like mead, her pleas sharp like blades. "Touch me."

His eyes widened at her whispered request and he almost choked on his words, the part of him that had sworn a vow of chastity struggling against the pleasures of the flesh like never before. "I can't..." He had lost himself and didn't know if his young life could ever be saved. "I don't..." He didn't even know how he could do what she was asking, it was a sin and– "I can't." He ran.

"Jaqen!" He ran out of the cabin, ran until he couldn't hear her cries anymore. "Please!" And then he ran again.

He stopped when he was out of breath and his legs threatened to give way. And as he leaned against a tree, the thought of her lovely face contorted with pleasure made him hard again, and angrily he stroked himself until tears streamed down his cheeks, and aching and miserable he cried out her name until his lungs burned.

*

He stayed away from her for two days.

_Let her tell her brother, let them come and get me, let them kill me. Let me be free from my sins._

But perhaps they could kill _her_  instead, because she let him run away, because she couldn't keep a useless monk in line.

He returned, dirty, inside and outside, for he indulged himself so many times he couldn't count. And went to the sea. _Wash away my sins. Let me be myself again._

 

 

Standing waist-deep in the water, he glanced at the shore and saw her. She was trudging down the narrow path leading to the cabin, her eyes fixed on him. As she reached the sand, she began to strip off her clothes until she stood naked in the daylight.

And he had never seen her in the daylight before.

His gaze wandered over her snowy skin, smooth and sleek; dipped to the dark patch of curls at the juncture of her thighs; lingered on her pink nipples, hardened by the sea breeze. She was magnificent. And she was coming to him.

She stepped into the water, and when she finally got to him... She slapped him. Hard.

"Don't you dare leave again, priest."

She looked him straight in the eye for a tense moment. Then, as if nothing happened, she began to wash him.

She ran her hands up and down his chest, water streaming underneath her fingers on his skin. She grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him down into the water. She rubbed his arms all the way to his hands, and holding his gaze she cleaned his fingers – one by one.

He thought he saw something in her eyes, until hastily she tossed his hands away and proceeded to wash his hair, now much longer than when they first met and encrusted with mud. As she threaded her fingers through his locks, her breasts were so close to him that he could see them rise and fall with each breath she took. He was mesmerised.

Her hands moved to his face, and she gently scrubbed his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, the salt of his past tears mingling with the salt of the sea.

When she was done, she just turned and left.

He stayed in the water, shaken and confused, unable to move. And watched her form, her glorious form walking away from him, as if those intimate moments never happened. As if she was a fleeting vision dissolving into thin air.

*

She was angry at him for days.

She poured all her rage into their training. And he knew, he knew she wanted him to feel guilty for running away, because one day, as they were practising along the seashore with the long wooden sticks he helped carving himself, in between beatings she recounted to him what she did during those two days.

She had pelts to sell, and had to carry them to the village by herself. And of course her brother questioned her – _where is your slave?_  She told him Jaqen was sick, and Bjorn insisted that she take the healer to the cabin with her, because the village couldn't afford another plague like the one that killed their parents. But then he considered that Arya knew perfectly well how to use healing herbs, and let her be.

Jaqen didn't know what to say.

"Why did you– Why did you lie for me?"

"I can't let them take you away, slave." He could hear the hatred in her voice and see it in her stance. "You belong to me."

She hit him so hard that he lost his stick – and his balance. As he was falling backward, his stick caught on her ankle somehow, and he felt her fall too.

They crashed to the sand on top of each other.

Arya was still holding her stick. She pressed it down against his throat as she watched him closely.

"You are mine," she hissed.

Jaqen felt as if time had stopped.

He searched her eyes, and saw a whole range of emotions in them – intimidation and tenderness, torment and vulnerability... Care. And hurt.

He could feel her heart pounding against his, her breasts pushing against his chest with her every breath, and ashamedly he realised she could feel his growing erection against her lower belly.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, her grip on the stick loosening, and slowly she lowered her head.

His breath caught in his throat. Her lips were so close, so dangerously close to his, that he wondered if she would beat him harder should he try to kiss her.

He had often wondered what her lips might taste like.

_God forgive me, for I want to commit another sin._

He watched her leaning in, her eyes half-closed.

Her lips were almost touching his, when a big wave lapped at the shore, washing over them. Wincing, she stood up in haste and stepped back, pointing her stick at him.

"On your feet, priest. Training's not over." The merciless savage was back. Once again as if nothing happened.

*

It was another sleepless night for Jaqen.

_You are mine._

Tossing and turning on the cold floor, he couldn't help hearing her words in his mind, again and again.

At some point, he was not only imagining her voice.

Arya was calling his name again.

He hadn't seen her touching herself since the night he ran away. He should have run again, forgotten her, but he was weak, and he was hard, he was so hard he couldn't lie still, and suddenly he leapt to his feet. He needed to see her face, her eyes, her lips. Her.

He was only wearing his pants, and to hell with decency, he needed to go to her. _Right now._

He grabbed the curtain and moved it out of the way. And watched.

After seeing her in the daylight, everything was clearer in his eyes. When she was in the sea with him – when she was so close yet so far – he had seen all the scars that marked her body. Battle scars that didn't diminish her beauty, only made her powerful, untamed. And now he wished he could run his hands – _God,_  his tongue! – all over them.

The moment their eyes locked, she parted her lips and moaned louder, and he felt his blood pumping hard and fast between his legs.

The feral vision before his eyes was entrancing. She had left the lamp so close to her that he could witness every wicked thing she was doing to herself.

She was so wet. He could see the wetness spreading from her centre, wet noises coming from the tender spot her hand was touching.

He watched her fingers sliding in and out of her, and swallowing he realised he couldn't keep still much longer. As if reading his mind, she finally spoke.

"Jaqen... Touch me." Her voice was different somehow. Softer. "Please," a whisper.

He was breathing heavily, the part of him that had sworn a vow of obedience yelling in his mind that he had to obey. His hands closed into fists at his sides, his fingernails digging into his palms – his inner struggle against his desires definitely lost.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

"Show me how."

He heard her breath hitch. "Come to me."

He was at her feet in an instant. He kneeled on the furs and slowly approached her luscious form.

"Touch my legs." He lowered his gaze and reached for the smooth skin of her ankles. At his touch, she let out a shaky gasp. "Closer, come closer."

He slid his hands all the way to her thighs, his eyes fixed in awe on her skin against his own. _I am weak. And I do not deserve her._

She stopped touching herself. His gaze came up to meet hers, and her hand reached out for his.

As they touched, he felt a spark running all through him, and he just _knew_  she felt it too.

Holding his gaze, she guided his hand to the warm place between her thighs, and trailed his fingers down her slit and then back up to her dark curls.

She was so, _so_  wet. _Her hand_  was so wet. And those fingers, _God,_  those fingers were inside her mere moments before.

Suddenly, she hissed in what he assumed was pain. As he was withdrawing his hand in fear of hurting her, she moaned her disapproval. "No!" She gripped his hand tighter and pressed it against her curls.

He watched her closing her eyes as her whole body shivered.

She was beautiful.

Her hand resumed its movement. But now it was his fingers that worked on her. She moved his hand in a rhythmic pace, and soon he realised she was aiming at a specific spot. As she circled that spot with his fingers, over and over, her breathing became heavier, her movements erratic, and her lips, _oh God,_  her lips that were so close to his mere hours before, she was torturing them with her teeth and, _oh,_  how he wished he were those lips. _How can I go back now?_

"Jaqen!" She gasped for breath, pain and pleasure on her lovely face once again.

And tears.

"Don't go away... Don't– Don't leave me again."

He couldn't even if he wanted to. He couldn't deny her anything. Not anymore. He had realised that he couldn't live without this fierce woman who saved him in so many ways and in spite of everything. Instinctively, he leaned down and rested his lips on the soft skin of her thigh.

"Oh... Jaqen!" All of a sudden, she was thrashing around, arching her back, and he felt her pulsing under his fingers, her hand – _their_  hands – still rubbing that spot, raggedly, as if she needed to draw out the moment; and when she was completely drained out, her back fell heavily against the furs and she went still.

He watched her catching her breath, her face flushed, her eyes hooded, her lips... _smiling._

And he had never seen her smile before.

He smiled back as she pulled his hand and he went to her like the slave he was.

She framed his face with her hands and tenderly stroked her thumbs over his cheekbones.

Once again, he didn't know what to say.

And once again, he saw so many emotions in her eyes, and without thinking he crashed his lips to hers, and soon he felt her tongue tracing his lower lip and sliding into his mouth.

The moment her tongue touched his, he closed his eyes; the spark he felt now was overpowering, and he wanted more, he wanted all of her, he had _a thirst_  for all of her.

Languidly, he let her explore his mouth, let her devour him – he would let her do anything – and as her tongue slid against his, he felt her hands wandering across his skin, down his chest, his sides, his belly; and sliding lower, lower, she let a hand slip down between them, feeling his length through his pants.

He broke the kiss, struggling for air. "Oh... Arya..."

"Shh, let go..." She pushed him gently until he was lying on his back, and straddled his legs. "Let go, Jaqen."

She splayed her hands across his chest, watching him almost reverently, and he stopped breathing when she leaned down and closed her lips over one of his nipples and let her tongue swirl around it. She ran her hands down his skin, until she reached his length again. She traced her fingers down, over his pants; then slowly she lifted the fabric from his erection and slid it off.

As he watched her reaching for him, he felt shame painting his cheeks, but when her fingers wrapped around him, he felt only _her._

She tightened her grip and moved her hand just like he did, but her touch was different, so silky, so intense, so... _better,_  his hazy mind decided.

His hands were resting motionless on the furs, until he found the confidence to raise one and tentatively graze her knee. As she felt it, she got closer.

She lowered herself until her breasts brushed his chest. And she kissed him.

She kissed his lips, "dreamed of you every night," his chin, "sucking on your tongue," his neck, "Jaqen," she bit him, "taste you," and licked him, "your skin on mine," as she whispered such things he had never heard before, "fuck me someday," and her hands continued to stroke him, "so loud they're going to hear us from the village," until his vision blurred, "need to see you come," and he exploded screaming her name.

"Arya!"

*

He spent every night in her bed since then. And every night she showed him more.

She showed him places, on her, _in_  her, where he could touch her and drive her wild and, _God,_  even _in him,_  and he couldn't believe how far from his faith he was willing to go for her.

She showed him things she could do with her mouth and she taught him things he could do with his.

They did things, countless things. Except one.

"Jaqen, no!"

They were entangled in her furs, naked, kissing passionately, her legs wrapped around his waist, as he was grinding his erection against her centre with a possessiveness he still wasn't used to feeling.

Until he almost entered her.

He remembered the days when committing sin was hard. The hardest thing now was not committing it. He gently dropped his forehead onto her breasts and took a deep breath before looking back at her.

"I love you, Jaqen. I love you so much. But I need to know you're one of us. Fully."

She had told him of her pack – her people, her family, her father. _The pack must survive,_  he used to tell her. The Northmen must survive. She wouldn't give herself to Jaqen unless he became one of them.

"You need to renounce your Christ and choose our Gods."

"There is only one God."

*

It was a sunny day when Jaqen's child came into the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, he did say he was weak, right? :)


End file.
